“Much had been lost in his rebirth. He had forgotten his name, his history, all the things that drives a person onwards. Although his physical form remained, a larger part of him was left outside of his body. His soul was in the ground, the buildings…even in the very air. He was less than a god, more than a man. He was Aachen.”

Chapter 83

Wil sat atop the wall’s battlements, his legs dangling over the side, as he watched the blue sun kissed the edge of the western horizon. The last two days had been extremely busy, even Garman had been run ragged by the preparations.

Finally, everything was done. The auxiliaries were settled, and he now had a moment of peace before the sun disappeared and Night came.

It was ironic, that in a dead city, peace would be so rare. He enjoyed these moments, the calm before the storm. Minutes that he could carve away from the day, just for himself.

Alone with his thoughts, Wil idled away the time by conjuring small objects into his hand, before tossing them over the edge, striking the streets of Aachen over a hundred feet below. A minor trick he learned while studying conjuration, he could create small object from nothing, save his Willpower and tiny bits of Mana.

Of course, there were cantrips and spells that could have the same effect, but this was quicker and less draining on his stamina.

Creating a small, glass bottle, he hurled it off the battlement and watched as it spun slowly in the dying light, before shattering on the paving stone below. The mana that tethered the object to reality unraveled upon impact.

The small shards of glass dispersed into tiny, flickers of light before disappearing completely.

Looking into the sky, he judged that he still had roughly a half hour before he needed to head back to where the others were waiting. The ranks of newly arrived auxiliaries were waiting impatiently with the clerics who powered the wards with their altar.

Every Night was the same. The sun would set, the screaming and howling would start as the frenzied ghouls attacked. They would hold the wall for just long enough to draw the undead in.

Then, POOF, the unlucky, chosen priestess sacrifices her life to destroy them. Rinse and repeat.

Wil was sure there was some honor in her sacrifice, that she was happy to fulfill her duty. But months on the wall, fighting in the streets of Aachen, he had long since become cynical towards everything.

Whatever glory people perceived in death, he couldn’t see it. Not anymore.

Wil created a small stone, seeing how far he could throw it. It sailed through the air, a long arc that ended when it struck the top of a nearby building. Like the bottle, the stone disappeared once it hit the clay tiled roof.

He hadn’t spent much time with Erinn and Gunther since their first evening, drinking together. He had been busy with his duties, they were hectic in the preparations for tonight.

Gunther was making sure to buy a shield large enough for the trio to hide under against any infectious blood that may be hurled their way. A very reasonable precaution, in Wil’s opinion. He didn’t want anyone to suffer that fate. Better a quick and clean death than that cruel agony.

As the last vestiges of light faded over the city, Wil created a small, clay figurine to throw. Maybe it was because of his stray thoughts, or deep-seated guilt, but the small statue resembled a mage. A figure pulled from his memories.

Her hooded cloak, which normally concealed her face, was thrown back, allowing him to see her features. They were twisted in a silent scream, her face showing the agony of her last moments.

Wil studied the clay figure silently, the blue light shining on him, as he sat on the wall and remembered. He still didn’t know her name. He had the chance to learn it, he could have asked around, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Learning her name would make it more real, what happened, what he did. Nothing honorable, nothing glorious, happened that day.

With a heavy sigh, he flung the figurine off the wall, not wanting to watch as it fell. Standing up, he didn’t wait to see it crash.

Turning away from the city, he made his way back to where Garman and the others were waiting.

The sun finally set, and Night had once again arrived in Aachen.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Darkness settled over the city, the miasma of death and decay, thick and heavy. Wil stood next to Garman at the wall’s edge, the other auxiliaries gathered around them. He could hear their nervous chatter, the shuffling of feet and noticed the uneasy expressions on all of their faces.

Erinn was standing in the rear, with Gunther nearby to shield her if necessary. The large warrior had purchased a large tower shield, big enough for both of them to duck behind. Martin stood next to several other clerics, ready to provide healing if needed.

He had told everyone present what to expect when they gathered on the wall this morning. Unlike Garman’s sink or swim approach, Wil had gone into detail on the coming battle. He hoped that most would listen to his advice, but he doubted it.

The previous groups never had, not until they were face to face with an undying enemy straight out of their worst nightmares.

Wil watched as the eerily, ghostly wisps of light emerged from the building below, lighting the streets enough for them to see any movement below. The lights were almost alive in the way they danced and traveled through the air, but Wil knew they were just concentrations of corrupted mana. A side effect of the negative energy that encompassed the entire city.

In the darkness, the living waited, the wards glowed with a dim blue light. The clerics who powered them were conserving their energy, all but a fraction was diverted to powering the divine magic that would soon be released.

Wil could see it out of the corner of his eye, a blazing blue light near the center of the fortifications. The lines of divine power visible, running along the stone wall, bringing ever increasing amounts of holy energy to the waiting, high ranking cleric.

They waited, as the dancing lights filled Aachen. With weapons held in white knuckled grip, the living watched the darkness deepen. Morbid curiosity filled many of them, they had heard stories about the infamous undead horde of Aachen, now they would have their opportunity to see for themselves.

The living waited…and nothing happened. The darkness reached a peak, the black moon hung directly overhead, and the Night was here. But nothing moved in the city below.

Something was wrong in Aachen, the scripted battle was moving in a different, unplanned direction. The living had taken their places, but the undead refused to show.

“Huh, that’s new.” Wil whispered, staring out onto the unmoving city.

Nearly an hour passed since the sun set. Every other night, the ghouls would be screaming in their mad frenzy to reach the living. The lich would be leading his army of the damned forward, desperate to escape this prison.

On this Night, nothing happened!

The people around them grew restless as they realized that something was wrong, that the expected battle would not take place. Wil could hear the shouting, the noise growing as the nervous energy and anticipation was replaced by confusion and disbelief.

It had been years since the wall had been built, and the battle on the first night followed the same course of action, without fail. This waiting was worse, in some ways, than the battle that should be happening.

“Shut it!” Garman yelled at the auxiliaries around them, silencing the chatter and temporarily stilling their movement. The calm only lasted a moment before the conversations started again.

Hours passed, and the group had spread out. Some were sitting around the cleric’s altar, others were leaning on the parapet, smoking pipes or playing cards. Garman had gone towards the center of the fortifications, seeking to find out what their orders were now that the undead were not attacking.

Wil had gone back to sitting on the battlements, creating small objects to hurl into the darkness below. He found it satisfying to fill the silent city with the sounds of shattering glass and breaking dishes.

Summoning a large dinner plate into his hand, he was about to toss it over the edge when he noticed movement below. A small figure was making its way out of the dark streets, moving between the floating ghost lights, alternating from dark to light as it moved.

Robed and hooded, its black robes blended in with the Night, making it difficult to spot at first. Wil wasn’t the only person to catch a glimpse of the figure. All along his section of wall, cries were heard, and fingers pointed as others noticed the figure’s approach.

Making its way slowly, the living had time to pick up their weapons, and retake their places, preparing for an assault.

The robed character stopped, just outside the blue glow from the wards, its face hidden as it tilted its head upwards, assessing the wall before it.

Wil, having stood up and joined the others as soon as he spotted the figure, waited with a feeling of dread at this new event. In Aachen, surprises were never a good thing. They could plan for familiarity, but sudden developments meant people died, usually in large numbers.

Standing in front of the wall, its silhouette highlighted by the darkness behind it, the robed figure lifted an arm, removing the hood from its face.

A rotten and decaying visage greeted the living, its skin pale, and parts of its skull exposed. What terrified Wil was its eyes, they were burning pits of power. Fiery orbs of mana blazing in the Night.

The robed figure was the Lich, no longer lost and incomplete. It had regained its strength, the Mana thick and rich surrounding it. Its soul burned with power, a spark of divinity in undying spirit, keeping its decaying body functioning.

No longer merely a Rank 11 undead, its power surged to greater heights. Before them stood a Rank 20, the pinnacle of mortal strength and power. The Lich’s Mana removed the life from everything around it, its undead presence anathema to the living world it existed in.

The weight of its magic was like an ocean pressing down on them.

As it observed the wall, Wil could feel its gaze sweep past him, looking into his very soul with its scorching stare. Wil could hear the men and women near him tremble at the Lich’s attention, their armor rattling from their shivering.

A loud clatter interrupted the silence, as a weapon was dropped from nervous fingers unable to grip it.

The Lich didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge their existence, beyond that brief look. It didn’t need to. The lich was so far beyond them that they were less than ants in its presence.

It was a demigod, corrupted and impure as its existence was, the creature before them was still closer to divinity than any of the living standing before it could ever dream to be.

As its fiery gaze swept across the wall, it whispered a single word into the night.

A name, barely heard from where they stood. But one that carried such power and weight that its utterance shook the ground beneath their feet. Wil could feel reality around them groan and strain, barely able to contain the sound of the Lich’s call.

“Cyäegha” The lich had spoken, and something within Aachen responded.